The company has already made its decision. Yes, or no. I need to just hold my tongue, wait to be told my future.
Brijesh twists to look at me, his deep-set eyes blown wide with realization. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I almost forgot you interviewed for that project manager job.” He nudges my shoulder, and the tiny gesture from one of my only friends in this whole city calms my nerves … a bit. “If you get the new job, we can trade. Your old desk outside the CFO’s office in exchange for mine, outside the cooking studio.”
I roll my eyes, not buying his offer to trade for one second but still admiring his attempt to distract me. “You’d never give up being the first person who gets offered the extra food from the cooking studio,” I say with a snort. “I bet you’d sooner trade your fame.”
Food Baby, the magazine where Brijesh works, is owned by Little Cooper Publications—the larger business conglomerate that employs us both. Brijesh and I are technically coworkers, although we’ve never coworked a day in our lives. Our departments are, like, third cousins twice removed on your mom’s side. His job is hands-on, fun, and flashy. Mine is all about crunching numbers and pleasing corporate executives.
Which isn’t the worst, to be honest. I like finance. I’m good at finance. Math makes sense to me, and it doesn’t play games with you if you don’t play games with math （Hello, Wall Street）。 But truthfully, I’ve spent my whole life believing I’m supposed to want something more. A job that’s more creative. A life that’s more inspirational. A career track that doesn’t make my Brooklyn flower guy release a disappointed “Oh” when he learns what I do all day.
That unshakable feeling is why I applied for this project job with Little Cooper—to stretch my creativity, to see if I can help build something new from scratch—and it’s why I’ll remain in a panic spiral until I find out if they decided I’m right for it.
Yes, or no.
“My fame?” Brijesh repeats, drawing me back to the moment. The word sounds greedy on his lips.
“Following,” I correct, stepping around a puddle.
Brijesh has been featured in some of Food Baby’s YouTube videos lately, which means he has no small number of social media fans out there. I suspect more than half just like the look of him. He’s all muscled and bisexual, with black stubble and cheekbones sharper than his very expensive Japanese knife collection. Physically, I understand what the Food Baby subscribers see in him, but they don’t know about his inability to retain how compound interest works.
Also, he and my roommate occasionally bang, so my apologies to the subscribers for introducing them.
“Brijesh.” We land on the sidewalk in front of our building, and I still him with a hand to his forearm. He pauses and faces me, eyebrows drawn together, sensing my change in tone. I show him the notification on my home screen.
“Oh,” he says, working through the meaning the same way I did when I first got the invite. “Today’s the day they’re getting back to you?”
I nod solemnly.
It’s quiet for a moment. Then Brijesh says, “Well, it’s bound to be good news.”
His tone is full of unbridled reassurance. I wish it could kinetically transfer to me, but the lead brick in my stomach only sinks deeper.
“You’re dynamite, Casey. Like, your whole aesthetic is its own résumé.”
“What do you mean?” I tilt my head.
“How hard you work, how many people rely on you, how good you are with numbers. Honestly, LC would be idiotic not to promote you.”
I blush, feeling warm blood pool behind my cheeks. Flyaway hairs escape my bun. I tuck them snugly behind my ears. “Thanks, Brijy, but it’s not a promotion. It’s just a new job.”
Even as I say it, I know it’s not the whole truth. The job would be an upgrade. A step forward. A venture into uncharted waters. Best of all, a positive affirmation that I don’t have to subscribe to the full range of weirdly exclusive Girl Boss Culture to be a successfully functioning adult.
Funny enough, my own boss, Don, was the one to suggest I apply for the opening at Little Cooper’s new digital media platform, Bite the Hand. What started as a pet project for zany ideas not aimed at our print subscribers—like a list of the best hangover meals for every kind of liquor, activism city guides, quizzes to determine your ideal sex toy, or links to the internet’s funniest memes of the moment—has morphed into its own beast with an identity wholly separate from its parent print magazine. It’s almost like an amalgamation of BuzzFeed, The Cut, and whatever content is trending on TikTok right now.
Don didn’t suggest I apply in an I’m-trying-to-get-rid-of-you way but more of an I-need-someone-loyal-to-me-on-the-inside way. He’s stressed about how fast the platform is growing, how no one seems financially minded. Don went so far as to set up a networking meeting between me and Bite the Hand’s deputy director weeks before the job opening posted. He’s genuinely confident I have a shot, which has my hopes—and my nerves—way up about the whole thing.
I take a deep breath. I’ll know, one way or another, in less than fifteen minutes. As a girl who does poorly with unknown variables, that’s the consolation I’m clinging to. Even if I get bad news, the waiting will be over.
My skin is sticky from the fog, and I feel a drop of condensation roll between my boobs. I’m so glad I reapplied deodorant. It’s a typical August day in the city: sweltering, crowded, muggy, and just miserable enough to be a little bit magic.
We start walking again and hit the lobby of our building a minute later. It’s all high ceilings, modern art, escalators leading to straitlaced desk attendants. Brijesh and I swipe our badges by the security kiosk. CASEY MAITLAND, my badge reads in fading blue ink, along with the job title FINANCIAL ANALYST and the company identifier LITTLE COOPER PUBLICATIONS.
I desperately attempt to manifest that, soon, I’ll have a newly issued badge to swipe.
We wait in line, eventually piling into an elevator with a crush of bodies that sometimes rivals the subway. Brijesh drains his coffee, then starts muttering the ingredients he needs for a recipe test over and over beneath his breath.
“Ground lamb, white wine, ras el hanout—”
“What’s that?” I whisper.
“Tell you when you’re older.”
His stop arrives before mine; Little Cooper owns nine magazines based in the US, but the staff occupy twelve different floors.
“Good luck. Don’t forget my cubicle offer,” he whispers as he hops off on thirty-seven.
“Don’t forget me when you’re famous,” I whisper back.
On my way up the beanstalk, my legs grow restless. As the elevator starts and stops, lets people off and lets them on, I tap my right foot in rhythm with the song stuck in my head （“Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake, of all things）。 The higher we climb, the fewer people remain.
Eventually, as we reach the high nineties, it’s just me and one other person.
I’ve worked here long enough to know that I should keep my gaze forward, on the slowly dwindling number of glowing elevator buttons. Back home in Nashville, I people-watched all the time, but New Yorkers don’t like it when you stare. So, I try not to look at him. I really, really try. But like a moth inevitably drawn to a bright light in the dark, I can’t help but peek over.